


in the dark

by narikalen



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Flogging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narikalen/pseuds/narikalen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds the dark comforting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galadriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/gifts).



> For a lovely woman as a virtual housewarming gift!

He finds the dark comforting.

When he was small, he used to be afraid of it. There was nothing to see, only sounds that he was too small and innocent to identify. Snuffling, wet noises came seemingly from all directions, and a smell, a stink, permeated the space. When he was small, the dark was a loss of control.

Now though, now the dark offers sanctuary. The dark offers him power, the choice to let go, to submit. The blindfold tied across his face is there by choice, by consent. The air smells of sex, thick with it, and it intermingles with the hot humidity of the room, wafting across his exposed skin.

He can hear the people move around the room, quiet murmurs, the clink of cups on table tops. He waits, suspended, unwilling, unable to move. Around him, the muted sounds of the party continue, and he is simply an ornament, a pretty chandelier hanging by a rope. He’s detached; disconnected. His body is here, tight, but he’s not a part of the festivities. Not yet.

The air in the room moves over him in waves, buffeting against him, pushing. A minute shift, a tensing and relaxing of the muscles. He hears the supple leather creak slightly, a small rub against his skin. The straps cross his chest, bind his arms behind him, suspend him in the air. His legs are wrapped, spread open, pulled up and behind him, hanging him in a painful backwards arch. Every muscle in his body is pulled tight, resisting the ropes. He can feel each rub of leather against his skin, catching and causing little pains. He is hyper-aware of every shift of his body within the confines he is bound in.

The straps are the only thing keeping him connected, keeping him real right now. Without them, he would be completely free, flying through the air. The thought terrifies him. In here, he has the ultimate power. He made a choice, and the choice was to give up. To let go.

Someone walks by, gives him a small push, and he starts to swing slightly, spinning in the air. For a long time, that is the only movement.

The snap of the leather crop against his inner thigh is a surprise, the sound sharp. For a moment, the room is silent, before quiet conversation resumes. The sting follows, a light warmth on his skin. A slap, then another, always in that same place. The heat intensifies, spreads, pools in his groin. His panting is loud to his ears, and he struggles to remain still in his bonds.

It took a while for him to register that the beating had stopped. Slowly, sound filtered back into his consciousness. Across the room from him, he could hear the sensuous moans and the slap of skin on skin. He begins to grow colder, the heat from earlier fading away, leaving an emptiness behind, leaving him alone in his head. The straps holding him continue to creak. Time loses meaning.

Time, some time, a long time, a short while later, hands move over his body. Caress his shoulders, his chest, rub over his stomach, his pulled-taut thighs. A few pinches, sharp little pains bringing him back into his body. A scrape of nails over the sensitive areas on his nipples and chest, leaving slight raised welts in their wake. But mostly, he feels the petting, firm strokes over his tensed muscles, strong and sure in their ownership of his body. They warm him through, pull him out of his head, brings him back to the room, the party, all the people. No words are spoken, but he knows inherently that he has done well; he is being rewarded, praised by the hands moving on his skin.

He is shifted, pulled upright, hanging by his arms now instead of his body, the stretch felt keenly. The flogger caresses his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, buttocks and thighs. Emptiness again, just for a moment, before the flogger graces his chest. He hangs as the flogger works over his body. The pain builds slowly, a thud thud thud against his body, twisting him, pushing him down into the rhythm of the beating. He’s burrowing into it, into the steadiness of the beat, grounding him, grounding him. Heat builds on his skin, spreading and joining until he feels as though he was being roasted, split open, the pain everywhere and nowhere and so intense he can not breath, can not help but arch and flail and try to avoid the flogger he can not see. He’s screaming, and he doesn’t know when he started. His heart beats are lost, and all he knows, all he can hear, is the thud of the flogger hitting his body. He is connected to every stranger in the room, a fly caught in the spider web, twisting, twisting, can’t get free, can’t get out. He’s not sure he wants to.

And then the flogging is over. Distantly, he hears applause break out through the room. Hands check his body, running over the red, swollen skin. Gentle murmuring all around him, taking him down, removing the straps binding his body. He feels lightened with the removal of each strap, with every stroke of hands on his arms, his legs, rubbing the sensation in. Words of praise and endearment float around him, landing softly on his skin and in his mind.

In the dark, he feels vindicated.


End file.
